


The Elvenking's Chambers

by kinky_pretzel



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Feeding Kink, Force-Feeding, Gen, Humiliation, M/M, Non-Consensual, Stuffing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-18 01:31:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3551048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinky_pretzel/pseuds/kinky_pretzel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil wants to humiliate Thorin by exploiting the famed dwarven insatiability for food.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Elvenking's Chambers

The Elvenking sat in his chamber and studied the portrait of the dwarven prince. It was drawn some time ago in the halls of Erebor, in the days when their glory still lasted and they shone with the luster of polished stone and rang with the boisterous voices of the dwarves who resided in them. The drawing held a memory of a place that no longer existed, but the dwarf that looked at him from it was not only still alive, but alive only a short distance away in a room where he was being held.  
  
The eyes of the young dwarf challenged Thranduil with their unabashed resolve, daring and a strange light which might very well have been the first glimpse of the madness that plagued the dwarf's ancestors. The angle of the dwarf's chin and the way he held his head showed youthful cockiness and suggested a great amount of self-importance. Thranduil did not like what he saw one bit as it reminded him of the arrogance the dwarf displayed when he last spoke to him a day ago.  
  
The truth was, Thranduil despised this dwarf who had proclaimed hatred for all elves for no good reason and who had willfully disturbed the precarious peace of his forest; he despised the presumptuous manner in which this dwarf had behaved and the false claims he had made. Most of all, he despised the deceptiveness of the dwarf's character – for he was not what he made himself to be. All it took was to look at the idealized image in the picture and compare it with how he turned out to be in reality.  
  
Looking at the drawing now, Thranduil knew that the young fearless dwarf in it would devote his life to serving as a self-proclaimed leader of his people and would emerge decades and decades later in the flesh as an old bitter dwarf who, in the duration of his admittedly limited lifespan, has managed to move his quest not one bit except to disturb, ravage and dishonor. The dwarf was a disgrace to his race. The falseness of his character must have been considered repugnant even by his own compatriots - as proven by the fact that in the long decades of his exile, all the dwarf managed to achieve was to gather a handful of no doubt similarly depraved, possibly also deranged individuals who were willing to accompany him on this far-fetched, disruptive and remarkably badly organized quest.  
  
Such was Thranduil's opinion of the dwarf and he was quite sure most, if not all, of his assumptions were correct. The thing he hated the most about the dwarf was the pretentiousness, the way he hid his wickedness behind the mask of entitled pride and fake integrity. The more Thranduil looked at the portrait of the vainglorious dwarf, the more he wanted to expose him for what he was. And the more he wanted it, the more he realized nothing was standing in his way. In fact, Thranduil knew just the way to do it. The dwarves were said to be messy eaters with no table manners to speak of, reputed to often lose control when confronted with large amounts of food. Moreover, in their latest encounter, the dwarf made sure to reiterate the claim that he was starving. Well, it was time to give him some food.  
  
*  
  
A chandelier of candles lit the center of the room where two engraved chairs stood. They were elf-sized, but a flat wooden chest was placed in front of one of them. Thranduil watched the dwarf survey the room and wondered whether he noticed the table laden with food in the shadowed corner. A thrill of anticipation ran through his body. The visceral reaction surprised him, he was used to complete control over every muscle and sinew, but he was certain his outwardly calm composure remained intact.  
  
“Sit,” he ordered the prisoner. The dwarf placed one heavy boot on the low chest and settled himself into the oversized chair with surprising elegance. _We shall see how long your pretense lasts, dwarf._ Thranduil approached the chair and silently indicated the arm rests. The dwarf's exposed forearms were covered in thick black hair. As Thranduil bound the dwarf's left wrist to the arm rest, he could not prevent his mind from wondering whether all of the dwarf's body was as obscenely hairy as the visible parts. He bound the rope tightly but not painfully so. He certainly wanted the dwarf to experience pain, but this was not the way to achieve it.  
  
“What now?” The dward broke the silence. “More interrogation? I already told you-”  
  
“I know what you told me. And I decided to repair some of the damages you incurred whilst traveling in my forest.”  
  
The dwarf opened his mouth so as to spew more insolence, but Thranduil hastened to prevent that. “The last time we spoke, you complained that you and your company were starving. So I reasoned I would provide you with some food if it is really what you most desire – enough to feed you, and your company. And given you are the appointed leader, I will grant you the privilege of consuming the food on behalf of your companions.”  
  
The dwarf gave him a confused look, creasing his forehead as he raised his eyebrows at Thranduil above him. He took a breath, but again, Thranduil spoke first: “Stop gaping like a fish, dwarf. You will have plenty of opportunity to use use your mouth. But I suggest you concentrate on chewing and swallowing since you will be doing plenty of it tonight.”  
  
“You want me to-”  
  
“Silence.” Thranduil interrupted the dwarf and, satisfied by the ensuing silence and none too disconcerted by the dwarf's resentful glare, he crossed the room to the food-laden table, picked up a plate full of roasted meat and bread, deposited the plate onto the dwarf's lap, handed a fork into his untied hand and ordered him: “Eat.”  
  
And so the dwarf did. Obediently, efficiently. When he polished off the first plate, Thranduil readily served him another. The dwarf soon seemed to realize that the amount of food he was being served far exceeded a gesture of hospitality and was turning into something else altogether. He must have finally caught up with the fact that there was no lie in the promise that he would be fed enough for the whole company. He also seemed to decide to face it with brazen defiance typical of his kind – he ate everything he was given without any protest. _Does he think I will grow bored? If I'm sure of anything, it's of my patience to wait and see an enemy defeated._ Though Thranduil had heard legends about the insatiable dwarven appetite, he was more than willing to sacrifice the time necessary to test its limits.  
  
After a long while and a number of plates, the dwarf began to show obvious signs of having had enough. The excess of food made his stomach visibly rounded and he was taking longer and longer pauses between every morsel, clearly fighting the urge to stop. But that was not about to happen.  
  
Thranduil removed another empty plate from the dwarf, but instead of handing him another, he reached for the dwarf's belt: “Let's ease this open, shall we. I want to make my guest feel comfortable.” But first, he pulled it tighter for a moment and watched the dwarf suppress a sound of keen discomfort. When he released the leather's tight hold on the full belly, he watched the dwarf repeat the struggle to suppress an instinctive reaction, this time one of relief. Thranduil marveled at how easily he dominated the dwarf's body, how easily he could control his every response. He also registered with some surprise that his own body was not left unaffected by this display of submission and he felt the first stirrings of arousal. He looked at the dwarf's belly, now bulging freely, released from the constraint of the belt. It looked full, but not full to bursting. The dwarf looked uncomfortable, but not desperate. It would take more, perhaps much more, to get him there. As the dwarf's speed of eating had slowed down considerably, Thranduil decided to take care of delivering food to the dwarf's mouth. He bound the dwarf's other hand and clasped the fork in his own.  
  
He went on to feed his prisoner from a tray that he held himself, waiting for the dwarf to chew every morsel and swiftly replacing it with another. The dwarf did not gulp the food down quickly, but neither did he deliberately prolong the process. He dutifully ate everything that was served him, meeting Thranduil's eyes with an unflinching gaze of resentment. Finally, the last bits of food were gone, all the plates and bowls empty.  
  
“Is your game over now, elf?” The question was posed in an off-hand manner, but Thranduil rejoiced at the undertone of hopefulness he thought he heard in the dwarf's tone. _It won't be long now before he begs me to stop_. He could not wait to see his enemy broken and pleading. He got even used to the now unrelenting hardness of his cock. Though his inadvertent physical response disconcerted him at first, it was far from uncontrollable and he supposed the pleasure of release he would give himself as soon as he was done with the dwarf would serve as a welcome collateral of seeing the dwarf beat and humiliated.  
  
“Far from it, we are only just beginning,” he told the dwarf. Resisting the desire to feast on the sight of the dwarf's poorly masked disconcert, he got up and walked over to the table, returning with a tray laden with more roasted meat with gravy, more freshly baked bread, some cooked vegetables and several bowls full of thick sweet cream. He seated himself in front of the dwarf and began feeding him again.  
  
Minutes passed and Thranduil's arm was beginning to ache from the constantly repeated movement. The feeding was almost becoming a chore – were it not for the dwarf's apparent discomfort that was now visibly increasing with every mouthful. The dwarf's breathing was growing heavier, his color was rising, his posture loosening and his stomach growing fuller and fuller.  
  
Finally, the state of the dwarf looked physically painful, verging on unbearable. The amount of food a dwarf could consume far surpassed Thranduil's expectations and the capacity of dwarven stomachs was proven to be truly enormous. It was strange to realize that the light tunic once hung loose over the dwarf's flat midsection. A long time passed even from the moment that it began to show an outline of a rounded stomach. Now, the dwarf's belly was distended so much that it strained the cloth. Thranduil could no longer resist touching it. When he did, the dwarf winced slightly, suppressing the involuntary motion as soon as he registered it. He was breathing heavily, slumping down uncomfortably against the tall back of the chair. Thranduil kept his fingers resting lightly on the dome of the dwarf's belly and said: “I take it you are starving no longer?”  
  
The dwarf did not meet his gaze. The hitched rise and fall of his stomach rocked Thranduil's palm up and down. He increased the pressure and a grimace of pain momentarily twisted the dwarf's sharp features.  
  
“Well then, you must want more.” Thranduil kept his gaze on the dwarf as he leaned forward and picked up a bowl from the floor. The dwarf kept his eyes downcast. Thranduil brought the bowl to his lap and ladled a spoonful of thick cream. He brought the spoon to the dwarf's slightly parted lips and nudged it forward. His cock had grown so hard it hurt. He ignored it – he would tend to it later, once his enemy's self-control was finally shattered. It would not take long now.  
  
“No – no more,” the dwarf whispered to the ground. _Soon, soon, he will beg._  
  
“That is not how you ask a king for a favor,” Thranduil said. He was careful to keep his voice disinterested so there would be no indication of the titillation he felt at the sight of the dwarf's imminent demise.  
  
The dwarf blinked and lifted his gaze. Deep brown pools of hatred bore into Thranduil: “Fuck you.”  
  
The expletive spattered specks of cream from the spoon into the dwarf's beard. Thranduil masked his surprise with an upturned corner of his mouth: “Now now, that is not the way to treat a host. Where have your regal manners gone?”  
  
The dwarf did not answer and for a moment, his labored breath was the only sound in the room. But the spoon still hovered at his mouth. Thranduil pushed it forward and fed Thorin its content. “See? There is still room for more. I could not suffer a guest to starve.”  
  
Thranduil spooned more cream and filled the dwarf's mouth again and again and again. Each swallow was more belabored, but the dwarf still did not resist. Thranduil had hoped that by this point, the dwarf would be surely begging him to stop and release him, squirming and spitting the cream in every corner. But only the dwarf's beard was spotted with remnants of the previous courses, which was as much evidence to Thranduil's sloppiness as to the dwarf's. Thranduil hated the dwarf's impassive face which, though flushed red with the rush of sugar, smoothly erased every sign of exertion as soon as it threatened to appear. Thranduil could not begin to imagine how nauseus, how strained, how helpless the dwarf had to be feeling. He wanted to be asked to stop, he wanted to stop, he could not fathom how anyone could consume so much food that it bloated a normally flat belly into a taut ball, but no such request came from the dwarf's glossy lips. Instead, they willingly accepted every incoming mouthful and parted in resigned expectation of the next. Thranduil felt the stuffed stomach beneath his hand, felt it grow even fuller and tighter and fed it more and more and more. The bowl was soon empty, which Thranduil only realized when the spoon scraped its ceramic bottom.  
  
He stood up to fetch another and realized his cock was throbbing now. He quickly turned his back to the dwarf and crossed to the table, fighting the urge to touch himself, to rub against the table, to give himself any semblance of friction. As he busied himself piling meat and pastry onto a tray, he tried to will his body into obedience. He knew he could not take too long returning – although the dwarf was occupied with his own bodily predicament, he seemed still sadly alert enough to notice such a pronounced lapse of Thranduil's self-control. Was his plan turning against him? No, he would destroy the dwarf's resistance a hundred times over before he'd witness his own body's betrayal. _I am no unruly youth. I am my own master._  
  
He turned back and paused at the sight of the dwarf sitting in the ridiculously oversized chair with his feet propped on a box, his body slumped and stomach protruding unnaturally, breathing heavily with sweat glistening at his temples and yet still somehow holding his head upward and looking strained, but determined to last.  
  
<<<<  
  
“Don't worry, my dwarven friend, I have more food for you so you don't go hungry,” Thranduil said with no real conviction in an attempt to focus himself back on the original plan. As he approached his own chair and balanced the tray on his lap, the dwarf fixed him with his eyes once more. Thranduil returned the gaze, resolving to project condescension he no longer felt.  
  
“Yes, put it there,” the dwarf rasped, looking at the tray. “Maybe it will make your cock lie back down.”  
  
Before Thranduil could formulate a scathing answer, the dwarf continued.  
  
“No wonder your race needs immortality … if the only way to get your blood flowing is to ... tie up a dwarf and feed him your elven … rubbish.” The dwarf's breath hitched several times with the exertion of speaking, but he did not relent until he relayed the entire message.  
  
“I was under the impression you liked the taste,” Thranduils patted the dwarf's swollen stomach, eliciting a muffled moan from the prisoner, which sounded like victory to his ears. “Why else would you eat so much of it?”  
  
The dwarf did not reply, clearly occupied by the struggle not to react to Thranduil's pressing hand. He's relinquishing at last. Encouraged by the obviously lost battle for control on the dwarf's end, Thranduil leaned hungrily forward, unaware that his hair trailed into the gravy. With a blink of hesitation, he reached out with his other arm as well and slipped both hands underneath the dwarf's tunic. He pushed a bowl off the tray in the process, but neither he nor the dwarf paid it any mind as it clattered to the floor. The dwarf sighed and hissed at the contact. Thranduil felt the soft taut skin with his fingers and traced a vertical path of hair leading down the middle of the bulging belly. The dwarf winced and hissed again and tried to inch back into the chair to ease the pressure of Thranduil's hands. Thranduil realized the tray was now very much in the way of the final stage of the dwarf's humiliation and carelessly slid it down from his lap with one hand, never lifting the other from the squirming dwarf. As the food scattered on the floor, he realized his potential mistake. _I still haven't made him beg and now I made it seem like I don't intend to feed him anymore._ What was worse, his cock was harder than ever, pulsing with the frustration of denied release. He was teetering on the edge desperation himself. And it was all the dwarf's fault. Who would have expected such resistance? Thranduil felt like he was the one with his hands tied, tricked into submission by the sly creature's treachery. He pushed the offending gut with angry force, making the dwarf yelp in pain.  
  
“No, stop … stop.” At last, desair tinged the deep voice. It was the most enthralling music to Thranduil's ears and he longed to hear more of it. Quickly, before he'd give in himself. He leaned even further,  
  
“Do – do you want – I have more food prepared for you.” Thranduil searched the dwarf's eyes, hoping to feast on the defeat they'd reflect, but the dwarf screwed them shut, transforming his face into a grimace of misery. For a moment, Thranduil thought he wouldn't last, but then mustered the last reserves of resolve.  
  
“No … I can't … no more. Let me go!” The dwarf whispered in ragged breath. Thranduil felt the sticky sweat of the dwarf and saw that dwarf's struggle to move away had drawn blood in the places the rope cut into his wrists. The big painful ball of his belly seemed displaced on the otherwise lean, muscular body. Thranduil pushed it again, feeling how hard and tight it was and assuming it must be finally stretched close to bursting. He himself was impossibly hard and impossibly close.  
  
“That's not how you ask, that's no, no way to ask a king, no favor,” he spluttered at the dwarf who whimpered with pain. He lifted his hands from the overfed belly and bent down to pick up some food from the floor. The dwarf opened his eyes at the release of the pressure, but when he realized what Thranduil was doing, he finally uttered the words.  
  
“No ...I can't take anymore … please stop.” The dwarf's tone was not exactly pleading, but it was desperate, and anything would suffice at that point.  
  
“Very well,” said Thranduil. Then he stood up and left the room and the overfed dwarf in it. He slammed the door shut, leaned against the wall, reached into his trousers and finished himself in one stroke, letting out a shuddering breath. When he had composed and cleaned himself, he returned, finding the dwarf still bound to the chair and still achingly full.  
  
This was to be his moment of triumph when he should have inwardly gloated at the defeat of the dwarven prince's pride. But he received no such satisfaction for the dwarf's pride never really suffered any defeat. The dwarf was neither reduced to a slobbering overfed mess, nor did he beseech the great Elvenking for mercy. He simply withstood the trial Thranduil prepared for him with as much dignity as could be reasonably mustered in his position. Thranduil had hoped to see the dwarf for the despicable, pretentious creature he'd thought he was, but now, he realized he had been too quick in his initial assessment of the dwarf. What had he known about him that wasn't hearsay and conjecture? The dwarf that he bound to the chair in his chambers and fed almost until bursting faced him with expected hatred, but also with unexpected self-control, resolve and pride. Perhaps he was an admirable creature after all. Not to mention the embarrassing reality of Thranduil almost being the first to succumb to the embarrassing failure of his own body.  
  
“Are you done now?” the dwarf interrupted his thoughts.  
  
“No, not yet,” said Thranduil and left the room again. He returned after some time with a steaming pot that filled the room with a herbal scent and a knife. He laid both down on the chair where he had spent hours forcing food into a potential dwarven king. He bent and awkwardly pulled the tunic back over the dwarf's exposed stomach, watching with some concern how tightly the fabric stretched across the still enlarged, aching dome of the dwarf's belly. He cut the rope and waited as the dwarf rubbed his bloodied wrists. He then retrieved a cup from the table that held a significantly reduced pile of food and poured in some of the hot herbal concoction and handed it to the dwarf. It was accepted, with the same tacit obedience as the thousand and more mouthfuls.  
  
“This should soothe your stomach,” Thranduil said and made to leave the room, only to stop and turn in the doorway for the last time. “I must admit I may have been mistaken about you, Thorin.”  
  
The dwarf lifted his eyes from the steaming cup. If they had radiated hatred before, it had since turned into loathing. He seemed as if he was about to say something, but he didn't. Shamed and humbled, Thranduil retreated and took the memory of his failed attempt to subjugate the dwarven prince with him.


End file.
